


Hammer and Brew

by cantor



Series: Those Who Serve the Light [3]
Category: Dragon Age, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Canon Divergence, F/M, Fix-It
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-31
Updated: 2019-06-05
Packaged: 2020-04-05 03:39:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,397
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19040383
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cantor/pseuds/cantor
Summary: When the Inquisitor is taken prisoner in Val Royeaux and is awaiting execution, the inner circle must employ the services of their fiercest enemy to save her life.





	1. Haven

When she tried to pull herself up, she threw up and started crying.

It came about so fast she didn’t feel the urge building up. It was hard to say if she retched because of the physical strain she had experienced as of late or the because of the fear that gripped her so hard still; perhaps it was both.

The sheets were all slick and dirty now, greenish and black and brown. So was the woolen tunic she found herself in. It passed for a nightgown, but it made her skin itch. Worst of all, right as she stopped vomiting, she noticed an elven servant staring silently at the picture of untidiness unfurling before her eyes. She didn’t know what to say to the servant and how to make a case for herself, so she curbed her tears instead and said nothing. She was, after all, stripped of all dignity.

Her name was Wilhelmine Trevelyan.

She crumpled the sheets under her knees, thrashing, and tried to conceal the act, wiping the tears off her dirty face. The vomit was still fresh in her mouth, and she tried her best to ignore the foul taste. There was her last meal, some broth and hard cheese, whatever was left of it, and there was also some kind of rot or mold, she wasn’t sure which.

“Oh!” the servant exclaimed, no less afraid than Wilme herself, “I didn’t know you were awake! Lady Cassandra would want to know you’ve wakened!” Then, for some reason unknown to Wilme, the elven girl bowed deeply, almost kneeling before Lady Trevelyan. “At once,” the elf went on, unsympathetic to Wilhelmine’s struggles. “She’s in the chantry now. At once, she said.”

“I’m afraid I’m in a need of a change of clothing,” Wilme said shyly. “I can’t go to the Lady Seeker looking like that.”

“Of course...” the girl stammered reluctantly, “of course. I beg your forgiveness and your blessing, I am but a humble servant… There are some clean clothes in that little dresser over there,” she pointed to a dresser in the corner, “and you can clean yourself in the washbasin right here.” As she finished her directions, the servant moved back to the door of the small house they both were in, and closed it quietly from the other side.

 

The water was refreshing. She even drank some. Now there was no foul smell in her mouth and her face was clean, without the heavy and slick touch of spew. Still, Wilme felt like she had woken up after a long, long slumber. It felt like years, but it couldn’t have been, judged by the urgency in the voice of the elven girl.

Has she done enough? The thought was an unwelcome one.

Her hand throbbed painlessly. She eyed it with suspicion. Wilme half-expected the mark to explode and tear off her hand, but nothing of the sort happened. Obviously, she thought bitterly to herself, again in awe at the panic the subjected herself to.

But has she done enough? She had no idea.

It was time to see Cassandra, the Lady Seeker. She was a stern-looking woman in her late thirties, always on her guard. She was merciless to Wilme on their long trek up the mountain, but near the end of the journey she, for some reason, had softened her heart and even asked her opinion on the matters of how to proceed. Wilhelmine even started to doubt she was a prisoner anymore, but Chancellor Roderick had killed her faint hope on the matter.

She was the prime suspect.

 

It was exactly what she heard him say when she approached the small door of the war room, hidden in the depths of the chantry. What he accused her of she knew she could never do – murdering a Divine? She had joined the templars as a recruit before they broke off from the Chantry, yes, but to kill Divine Justinia whom she venerated, not to mention countless innocent people? It simply was not true, no matter what Chancellor said.

Despite his venomous talk, she heard some kind words on her way up the hill. They spoke of her being some sort of hero, she heard the word ‘herald’, but didn’t know what to think of it. They said she had saved them and stopped the Breach from growing. This was something that Wilme was sure wasn’t true as well. She was no hero.

She was a coward.

The door opened with an uncomfortable creak, preceded by an uneasy, shy knock. All attention was now diverted to the herald. Next to Cassandra stood another woman, Sister Leliana, her hair the color of a pumpkin. Despite this sweet detail, she looked as stern as Lady Cassandra herself. The templar knights stood to the both sides of a door, at ease. Another man with templar insignia on his steel armor was seated at a table, the man she knew to be Commander Cullen. He wasn’t tall but had an appearance of a handsome village farmer. Next to him Wilme spied a sweet-looking swarthy lady with a magnificent updo and quill in her right hand.

“Chain her,” the Chancellor ordered the templars immediately, “I want her prepared for travel to the capital for trial.”

“Disregard that,” Cassandra brushed his threat aside as easily as one would get rid of an annoying fly, “and leave us.”

The knights obeyed with the same urgency with which Roderick gave the order and left the room, bowing profoundly and placing their ironclad hands against their hearts.

“You walk a dangerous line, Seeker,” the chancellor said with disgust and strange, forced compassion.

“The Breach is stable,” Cassandra replied irritably, “but it is still a threat. I will not ignore it.”

“I did everything I could to close the breach and it almost killed me.” Wilme echoed. A sudden urge appeared in her, an urge to defend herself, to show the man who wished her harm that she wasn’t deserving it.

But the man was unmoved. “Yet you live,” he said mercilessly, as if he regretted the fact that Wilme hadn’t died, “A convenient result, insofar as you’re concerned.”

“Have a care, Chancellor,” Cullen snarled, “the Breach is not the only threat we face.”

The pumpkin-haired woman joined in. “Someone was behind the explosion at the Conclave. Someone Most Holy did not expect.” She eyed Roderick insistently. “Perhaps they died with the others, or have allies who yet live.”

“ _I_ am a suspect?” the Chancellor rasped. He clearly did not expect such an implication.

“You,” Leliana pushed, “and many others.”

“But _not_ the prisoner,” he spat disgustedly.

“I hear the voices in the temple,” said the Seeker, “the Divine called to her for help.”

Roderick was unconvinced. “So her survival,” he said skeptically, “that _thing_ on her hand – all a coincidence?”

“Providence,” Cassandra retorted, “The Maker sent her to us in our darkest hour.”

Wilhelmine was taken aback by her statement. When she entered the room, she didn’t expect to be defended, least of all praised. Memories flashed before her eyes, and the images of demon blood, pitch-black on crystal-clear ice appeared vividly in her head. “You really think the Maker would send someone like me?” she asked in a shaking voice, clearing her throat uneasily. She could scarcely believe what was happening.

“What do you mean, someone like you?” Cassandra asked, “You speak as if you are incapable. But so far, you demonstrated your commitment to us, if not the Order. Still, to answer your question, the Maker does as he wills. It is not for me to say.”

“The Breach remains,” Leliana began, “and your mark is the only hope of closing it.”

“This is not for you to decide,” Roderick spat angrily.

The Seeker slammed a voluminous tome on the table. For a moment, Wilme thought that the sheer force would be enough to break it. Nothing of the sort happened, of course, but Cassandra looked more than capable to do it. So far, everything had been happening at her with such speed Wilhelmine had difficulty comprehending it.

“You know what this is.” Cassandra addressed the Chancellor. “A writ from the Divine, granting us the authority to act. As of this moment, I declare the Inquisition reborn,” she stated importantly and started advancing on the poor Chancellor who looked worse than simply lost, “We will close the Breach,” she promised, “we will find those responsible, and we will restore order. With or without your approval.”

He shook his head, and, not finding anything to say, withdrew.

“This is the Divine’s directive: rebuild the Inquisition of old,” Leliana confirmed. “Find those who will stand against the chaos.” She paused. “We aren’t ready. We have no leader, no numbers, and now, no Chantry support.”

“But we have no choice.” Cullen said grimly.

“We must act now,” Cassandra agreed, and looked expectantly at Wilhelmine, “with you at our side.”

“And are you sure you’ll have me?” Wilme asked nervously.

“We are on our own,” the Seeker said grievously, “perhaps forever. We need all the help we can get. We need those who will do exactly what must be done.”

“Speaking of which,” joined in the sweet lady who had previously been completely silent but courteous at the same time, “I would like you to meet someone who may be of help to us. She is Revered Mother Giselle, and she has recently arrived in Ferelden. She was one of Divine Justinia’s greatest supporters and confidants, and she reached out to me with an offer of help should the Inquisition be established once more.”

“And what exactly is this Revered Mother bringing to the table?” Cullen asked skeptically. “Soldiers? Agents? I highly doubt it. We have no use for sharp words. Such a time is long over.”

“I wouldn’t speak so hastily if I were you, Commander,” she replied. “Doubt and skepticism are the greatest weapons we have at out disposal, and we may use them well against our enemies.” She heard a soft thud at the door. “It must be her,” the lady whose name was Josephine announced in a frilly voice of hers, “come in, Mother Giselle.”

“I saw the Grand Chancellor leave,” the woman spoke, her voice thick with orlesian accent, “and I do not wish to impose...”

“Let’s cut to the chase,” Cassandra said. “Revered Mother, we were told you could be of help to us.”

“And I was serious in my intentions when I offered my help, Seeker Cassandra,” Revered Mother said convincingly and then began again with an overblown speech.


	2. Val Royeaux

The mourning city was still beautiful.

She’s never been in Val Royeaux before. It was a warm, sunny day, and the towers of Grand Cathedral loomed overhead, tall and bright even from a distance. The golden lions and hanging crimson silks captivated Wilmelike they would anyone who was seeing them for the first time in their lives, but still it wasn’t enough to distract her from duty or the implications of it.

When Mother Giselle proposed her plan, it created an enraged furor in the Inquisition inner circle. The argument lasted for several hours, and afterwards everyone left angry and unsatisfied with its results, except for Wilme who was just confused. What the Revered Mother wanted was to arrange a meeting with the clerics in Val Royeaux, clerics who were still divided in opinion and unsure what to do next. “Go to them,” she spoke bravely, “convince them that you are not a demon to be feared. They have heard only frightful tales of you. Give them something else to believe.”

It was an insane plan, Cullen claimed, slamming his fist against the war table a couple of times, but his remarks were mostly ignored. Leliana eagerly agreed with everything Mother Giselle had been proposing, while Cassandra brooded silently with a restless expression on her face.

Wilme watched as all this was happening at her, again. She hated it. She was a declared heretic, and at the same time, a herald of change. She wasn’t sure which title she disliked more, but bothwere equally uncomfortable to realize. It was something she didn’t want to be. She wasn’t a heretic, truly, but neither was she a hero.

There was no place for her anywhere, she was afraid. Commander Cullen, Lysette and other templars and ex-templars banded together closely on cold winter nights, linked together by the heavy burden of what they were. They would discuss things unknown to her, support each other at times of great needs and provide useful insight, share their experiences, while she felt she could never join them at their table. She liked the Commander. He seemed a well-intentioned, confident man, valiant and straightforward like an heir to the throne of a long-lost kingdom from the tales she enjoyed as a child. At the same time, he seemed so distant Wilme was afraid to reach him. Lady Josephine, for one, had been very kind to her, having gifted the herald with several bars of scented orlesian soap. Despite her noble origin, Wilme could not imagine Lady Montilyet actually liking her outside of common courtesy. The herald also liked the idealistic Lysette with whom she shared more than one warm talk, but she could never consider herself to be Lysette’s friend.

She felt lonely and afraid. She could not find a friend in this cold and unforgiving world and she kept blaming herself for it. She was nothing, having not been even knighted yet, and she was pretty sure she would never be after what happened at the Conclave and with templars breaking away from the Chantry.

It was a schismatic decision Wilme didn’t agree with. But then again, who was she?

No one, despite the world’s efforts to convince her otherwise. This honor of being Maker’s chosen should have fallen to Cassandra or Cullen, not to a cowardly girl like her, a girl who was scared of death and pain and suffering. Mother Giselle kept talking about her like she was the equal of Andraste, and the mere thought unnerved her.

Her name wasWilhelmine Trevelyan and she was now a part of an envoy sent to Val Royeaux to meet with the clerics of the Grand Cathedral. There was no time for sightseeing, so Revered Mother led Wilhelmine, Cullen and Cassandra – who kindly agreed to accompany them – to a busy market square. To the left of the square, the scaffold stood, lonely and menacing, empty in this time of day. There was some sort of commotion near it, and as they made their way through the crowd to have a thorough look, they realized what was going on. Upon a makeshift wooden stage, an old woman stood, clothed in chantry raiments, red-and-white with speckles of gilded thread. She had an unpleasant voice, too high and pesky for her thick complexion.

“Good people of Val Royeaux!” she began importantly. “Hear me. Together we mourn our Divine. Her naive and beautiful heart silenced by treachery!” Then the mother noticed the procession and her eyes locked with Wilme’s. “Behold the so-called Herald of Andraste!” she proclaimed angrily rolling the hard and furious ‘R’s, “Claiming to rise where our beloved fell. We say this is a false prophet! No servant of anything beyond her selfish greed!”

“We came only to talk!” Wilme said uncertainly as if doubting her own words, “And we implore you to sit down together and face the real threat. The Breach is still in the sky, and we cannot afford to be divided in such circumstances!”

Wilhelminehad been practicing this little speech in her head ever since the party set out to Val Royeaux. It turned out it wasn’t as impressive or convincing as she expected it would be. There was almost no effect; the people looked at her as if she was a fraud and the Revered Mother wasn’t moved.

Cullen joined in, deftly urged by Cassandra. “It’s true,” he said, “the Inquisition is only trying to end this madness before it’s too late.” His voice was loud, and people turned to face him. It seemed that nothing could shake or move the templar when he stood as defiantly as a stone monument.

“It is already too late!” cried the Revered Mother, annoyed by their insistence. Again, people turned their attention to her. There was a lot of noise and whispering behind their backs. People backed out, taking a step back.

Out of the corner of her right eye, Wilhelmine noticed a large group of templars marching towards the makeshift stage. They were led by a man with grey hair and dark bags under his pale green eyes.

“Lord Seeker Lucius,” Cassandra whispered.

“The templars have arrived!” announced the Revered Mother happily and triumphantly, “They will protect us from your vile treachery!”

The Lord Seeker stepped onto the stage and delivered a powerful smack on the woman’s face. The crows gasped. He was wearing a steel glove. The impact of the hit was enough to send her falling onto the stage, tended to by her sisters.

“What’s the meaning of this?” Cullen demanded.

“Her claim to authority,” said the Lord Seeker sternly, “is an insult. Much like your own,” he added.

“Lord Seeker Lucius,” Cassandra interjected immediately, shocked by this outrageous display, “it is imperative that we speak with-”

He interrupted her. “Cassandra, Cassandra. Creating a heretical movement, raising a puppet as Andraste’s prophet… You should be ashamed. You should all be ashamed!” he addressed the gasping crowd. “The templars failed no one when they left the Chantry to purge the mages! You,” he pointed his finger at Cassandra and Cullen, pretending to ignore the Herald, “are the ones who have failed! You who’d leash our righteous swords with doubt and fear! If you came to appeal to the Chantry, you’re too late. The only destiny here that demands respect is mine.”

“Then what are you doing here?” Cullen snarled, taking over from Cassandra who was completely and utterly dumbfounded.

“I came to see what frightens old women so,” he replied snarkily, “and to laugh. You are not needed here. _I_ will make the Templar Order a power that stands alone against the Void. _We_ deserve recognition,” he stressed, “Independence!

“You have shown me nothing, and the Inquisition… less than nothing. Templars!” he rallied, his eyes blazing with pride. “Seize the heretic! Let her face justice her kind deserves. I care not for her fate, and even less than that for the verdict.”

Before anyone could react, two templars appeared out of nowhere and seized Wilme from behind. The dragged the herald who was silently crying and trying to get out of their grasp, and did their job nicely, deflecting all the attempts from Commander and Lady Seeker to free the prisoner. As he saw the commotion, the orlesian guard-captain who was present at the gathering rallied his forces which surrounded the templar and the Seeker and made them pull back. They couldn’t believe what was happening and neither could Wilme.

She was on her own. Terror gripped her hard. She was miserable. She was going to die, she was going to be executed and burned at the stake. The image of Andraste’s holy pyre came to her mind. Again, this comparison was a scary one. She sobbed violently. All strength left her and she remained meek and feeble in templars’ arms, letting them drag her away. She blamed herself for not doing more, for not resisting fiercely as she was sure anyone in her place would do, but she just couldn’t do anything. She wouldn’t have strength even to lift a sword if they let her go.

The Maker was punishing her. She knew it. She knew she didn’t have it in her to be His herald. She sobbed again.

Maybe she didn’t believe enough. Maybe he was choosing another Herald and disposing of the old. She wasn’t worthy. All these thoughts crowded her head like a swarm of buzzing bees. She tried to regain her composure before the crowd, but it was difficult and she failed, again and again. "No!" she cried. "Let me go!"

"You cannot do this!" Cassandra echoed. "You have no right!"

"I have every right," the guard-captain replied.

“Poor girl,” Cullen said to Cassandra. “Poor girl.” He knew they were outnumbered and his pity towards the Herald surged violently. He was angry, furious, and so was Cassandra. They weren't used to being denied, weren't used to being on the losing side. But they had no choice. They had to retreat, regroup and find a solution.

They had to save her. They had to.

 

Wilme was frightened to death, for all the world to see. She curbed her tears once more and adopted a withdrawn expression. She was innocent. She knew that, but the world didn't. Now there was nothing she could do, so she started praying silently, to herself. She recited the Chant of Light knowingly in her head and for a moment she felt his protection envelop around her like a soft hand.

“Templars!” she could hear Lucius cry out in rage. “Val Royeaux is unworthy of our protection! We march!”


	3. Haven

There was a crowd near the chantry. It was split in half in the middle, and both parts of the crowd were facing each other. Those were templars and mages, fuming violently. The templars stood to the right, on their guard, their hands gripping the hilts of their swords. Mages were to the left of them, hands in the pockets of their long robes, teeth bared. Everyone was agitated to the point of bursting, and each was indistinguishable from the next.

“Your kind killed the Most Holy!” hissed the templar at the front.

“Lies! Your kind let her die!” was the reply from the opposite side.

“Shut your mouth, mage!”

Just as the both parts of the crowd were about to clash, Commander Cullen interjected quickly, forcing his way in between the two men who were about to kill each other. “Enough!” he shouted fiercely.

“Knight-Captain!” exclaimed the accusing templar.

“That is not my title,” the Commander growled, “we are not templars any longer. We are all part of the Inquisition,” he reprimanded them patiently as if they were children in need of a lecture.

Another man appeared before him, dressed in chantry robes. Cullen recognised Grand Chancellor Roderick immediately. “And what does that mean, exactly?” the Chancellor asked.

“Back already, Chancellor?” Cullen quipped poisonously. “Haven’t you done enough?”

“I’m curious, Commander,” he replied, unshaken by Cullen’s accusations, “as to how your Inquisition and its Herald will restore order as you’ve promised.”

“Of course you are,” Cullen said tiredly as he rubbed his temples. A headache was approaching, he could feel it close. “You must no doubt feel quite vindicated, Chancellor. Or haven’t you heard?” the Commander started advancing on him. “Thanks to your ilk, the Herald was arrested in Val Royeaux. Isn’t this what you wanted all along? Go on now, celebrate your petty victory, Roderick,” he said almost fraternally, then added “but know this isn’t over.”

Cullen wanted to hit himself in the face. He was too brash. He didn’t think. He gave the man the satisfaction he had been craving since the Conclave explosion. The satisfaction of finally getting what he wanted. He bit his tongue, but it was already too late. The Chancellor looked triumphant, the crowd – taken aback.

“The rebel Inquisition and its pet,” he said, “the so-called Herald of Andraste, are finally getting what they deserve. I have warned you to cast down your hopes and abandon this foolish undertaking of yours, but you and your like? You never listen to what the Chantry has to say. Centuries of tradition have guided us to this day, and your little organization is not enough to undermine its foundations.”

Cullen sighed. “I wish I knew why Lady Montilyet allows you to stay,” he said.

“Clearly, your ‘ambassador’ knows where to draw the line. I am more than a simple clerk, as your lady Seeker says.”

“You’re toothless,” Cullen snarled as the realization came to him. “There is no point of turning you into a martyr simply because you don’t know any better. But I promise, I will make some use out of you. You’re coming with me.”

Roderick was astonished. “What?” he asked, dumbfounded.

“Did you hear what I said?” Cullen repeated, “you’re coming with me. Right now.”

The Chancellor allowed himself a snide remark. “Am I arrested too, now, Commander?” he asked. “Are you going to bring me to some sort of trial for my… transgressions against this Inquisition of yours?”

“No, but like it or not, you are going to help us prevent an execution from happening. Back to your duties,” he addressed the crowd loudly, “all of you.”

They obeyed silently, albeit in a reluctant manner.

  


The war room was dimly lit. The evening winds raged outside. Commander Cullen shoved the Chancellor in front of the table. Cassandra was already there, stern and solemn as ever, and so were Sister Leliana and Ambassador Montilyet. There was a silence.

“I brought to you Chancellor Roderick,” Cullen said finally, “I think his voice is going to be important in the coming trial.”

“Have you gone completely mad?” Cassandra mimicked the Chancellor and his words. She was darkly amused. “The Grand Chancellor has reconsidered at last? I am actually surprised.”

“Reconsidered? I think not,” Roderick retorted. “I am only here at the... behest of your ill-behaved templar.”

“Did you threaten him?” Josephine gasped.

“Not yet,” the Commander grumbled. “But I can’t say I’m not eager to.”

Roderick nodded as if he was expecting this. “Good to hear my suspicions about the Inquisition being a farce for thugs confirmed,” he said.

“You’re obviously good at talking. It’s all you’re good at,” Cullen said. “So you will stop this trial for us before it’s too late.” He presented the man with a parchment and a quill. Josephine edged a little towards them, then pushed her inkwell closer to the Chancellor’s side of the table. “Send word that this foolishness needs to be stopped. Issue a release of Wilhelmine Trevelyan.”

“I cannot,” he answered indignantly.

“You are the only one who can,” Josephine interjected. “As the Grand Chancellor of the Chantry, it is within your jurisdiction to oversee the Chantry trials. Do not pretend as if you do not know this.”

“No,” he refused, “I will not do this. The Chantry knows better than you and will conduct this trial with great care.”

“Whatever’s left of the Chantry,” Cullen grunted, “is looking for a scapegoat to blame everything on. Thanks to your mad ramblings they’ve found one. It is your duty now to save an innocent, because I am sure the trial’s going to end not in our favor.”

“My duty,” Roderick objected, “is to uphold the Chantry laws and traditions. You and your Herald have undermined them enough as it is. There is evidence that she was behind the murder of the Divine-”

“What evidence?” Leliana frowned as she interrupted him. “If you have evidence, speak up, Chancellor. I would very much like to hear it.”

“He has only his wild fantasies and conjectures,” Cassandra dismissed Roderick before he even began speaking. “It is no secret to any of us. There is no evidence. Wilhelmine did not create neither the Breach, nor the explosion at the Conclave. She has demonstrated steadfast commitment and did all she could to stop the Breach from growing, even though it almost killed her. She spent three days in and out of consciousness.”

“Which is precisely why it is so suspicious. Where everybody fell, she was the only one who survived, and she was left unscathed-”

“Have you even seen her, Chancellor?” she appealed to him. “Trevelyan is scarred and frightened. She was just a young templar recruit before all this! How could she have done it?”

“With the mark on her hand,” the Chancellor said confidently.

“Why then did she use it to close the rifts in the sky instead of killing us? You’re grasping at straws here! She’s not a villain. She’s just a scared girl who needs our help,” Cullen said. “I know a villain when I see one, and she’s not one of them.”

“Is this what you thought about Knight-Commander Meredith, Knight-Captain?” Roderick poked the Commander.

It was getting hot in the room. Cassandra notices veins bulging on Cullen’s forehead. “The Mark is of unknown origin,” she said, “and its magic is untraceable. I believe it is a gift from the Maker, sent to us in our darkest hour.”

“Magic? A gift from the Maker? Don’t make me laugh.”

“Lady Trevelyan cannot cast spells,” Josephine said. “It is no ordinary magic.”

“It seems it only has one purpose,” Leliana said thoughtfully.

“And which purpose is that, exactly?” asked the Chancellor.

“Closing the Breach, for one,” Cullen frowned. “Look, Roderick, I don’t care what you say. You _will_ write this letter, I swear to Andraste!”

“Your petty threats will have no sway over me!” the Chancellor shouted, somehow seeming less and less convinced by his own words. “I am the Grand Chancellor of the Chantry, and I hold its interests close to heart! I will not write anything that would undermine its foundations! The prisoner will be tried in an orderly fashion, and the clerical council will decide if she is innocent or not.”

Leliana squinted her eyes. “But you know she is innocent, Chancellor. I can see it. You know. You’re just already used to this confrontation and you’re unwilling to let it go.”

“Give us time,” Cassandra pleaded angrily. “We will find the one responsible for this, I give you my word as a Seeker and as the former Right Hand of the Divine. We will find them, whoever they are, wherever they are, if you just give us a chance!”

“Postpone the trial at least,” Josephine joined in. “It will do you no harm. Your reputation will remain spotless as much as it is possible.”

A runner knocked at the door.

“Come in, Charter,” Leliana said.

“I come bringing you bad news,” the elf said gravely. “Wilhelmine Trevelyan has been found guilty and sentenced to death.”


	4. Val Royeaux

The trial was quick.

The judge was a dim-witted old man with pale eyes, and he was unwilling to listen. With a golden scepter across his lap, he listened boredly as Wilme pleaded her innocence, and remained completely untouched by her words. She was offered no representative and was dragged before a frightful crowd that was determined to see her hanged. The judge was merciless, declaring her a dangerous apostate who must be put down for the murder of the Divine.

Now she sat alone in her cell, with only her nightgown for company, and awaited the execution. Everything had happened so fast. She wondered if her family knew and felt a sudden surge of pain in her left side at the thought of her father. He would be devastated. Her stepmother, on the other hand, would triumph, of course, if not openly, then surely deep in her heart.

Her father was a seafaring man, a captain of a vessel named Perseverance. One day he found her, a homeless girl, four years of age, playing in the narrow streets near the harbor. He asked her name, and she gingerly replied that she really had none anymore because people only called her Carrot. It was the color of her hair, and it wouldn’t change with age. Then, suddenly, after ten seconds of thinking, he told her that he was going to give her the most beautiful name in the world if she agreed to come to Ostwick with him, and she said yes shyly and immediately.

“Your name,” he had said then, “is Wilhelmine Trevelyan.”

She became his adopted child, but still evil tongues whispered the vitriolic title of Bastard Daughter behind their backs, and her stepmother never accepted her, giving in to what the people were whispering. But still, Wilhelmine, who preferred a more simple name of Wilme, was happy to have a loving father and a semblance of a family. Still, all her life, Wilhelmine wondered why her father decided to take a homeless girl with him.

Memories flooded her brain ruthlessly. There she was again, her lips purple from all the berries she ate one day, or her in a hazy dream of being a mage and her father rushing to comfort her, or the day she joined the templars, shining with pride, reflected in his eyes…

Her father would be devastated if he knew, Wilme thought bitterly. How will he deal with her death? she asked herself, but found no answers. Alone in a cell, stripped of all armor, she had all the time in the world to find them…

Before they came for her at dawn. She had lost all track of time. It seemed to Wilme that weeks and weeks had passed, but she had no idea how it really was. The three guards dragged her outside, almost lifeless, a husk of a human being. There was no fear in her anymore.

It died along with hope.

She had been hoping to be rescued, freed from prison and the unjust verdict. She wanted so badly to be saved from harm that she dreamed consistently about Commander Cullen breaking her chains and taking her to safety. She saw him defending her from the judges at court and in front of the guards and all who wished her harm. He was ever-valiant in these dreams of hers, a true knight in shining armor. But when she woke up, there was no one to save her. No Cullen, no Cassandra, not even an agent sent by Leliana.

They led her outside, to the scaffold. It was cold in the early morning, and Wilme’s skin prickled under the gentle touch of a chilly wind. She saw the shining towers of the Grand Cathedral and regretted that it was for the last time in her life. How she wanted to see the Sunburst Throne with her own eyes…

The scaffold was nearing, but despite everything, Wilme wasn’t ready to die. Inside, in the deepest corner of her soul, a little ember of hope burned brightly. It was so small Wilhelmine herself had no idea of its existence within her, but it burned true. She might have told herself countless times that she wanted everything to finally end, that she deserved everything, but deep down she didn’t believe a word of it.

They put the rope around her neck and she stared down her knees. It was a miserable sight. Her skin was pale but yellowish and sickly. There were bruises from weak struggling all over her arms and legs, where steel-clad fingers gripped her hard while dragging her to court and prison. Wilme took a deep breath.

Two figures stood out from the crowd.

“Stop!” Cassandra yelled, brandishing a rolled parchment. “These proceedings are illegitimate!”

“You Inquisition people again?” the captain of the guard asked irritably. “How many times must I tell you, you have no authority here!”

“The order comes from the Grand Chancellor himself,” she yelled again, attracting the attention of the crowd that had gathered. “See for yourself.”

“Give me that.” His face fell as he read. “By the highest authority of the Grand Chancellor of the Chantry, I hereby declare the trial on Wilhelmine Trevelyan of Ostwick illegitimate, null and void. The prisoner is to be released under the protection of the Inquisition forces at once. Signed, Roderick Asignon?” the guard-captain didn’t believe his own eyes. “What is this? A forgery?”

“It has the Chancellor’s personal seal if you would be so kind and pay some attention to it,” Cullen added. “There is no foul play here. The letter is legitimate. It was written by the Chancellor himself, and in good will, if I might add, unlike what you may insinuate.”

The captain of the guard stood motionless for a second, then waved his hand and gave up as easily as a child would, after receiving some sort of punishment. “Take your prisoner then,” he said, vexed, “and get out of the capital at once.”

For a second there, she thought he was going to tear the parchment apart, but it didn’t happen. The executioner reluctantly removed the rope from Wilme’s neck and shoved her closer to the stairs where Cassandra and Cullen met her. Cassandra took Wilme’s hand and squeezed it tightly in hers to comfort the Herald, who was taken aback by such gesture. Cullen took off his warm cloak and put it over Wilhelmine’s shoulders with his large hands, adjusting it awkwardly so that the girl would be all covered up. She was too weak to walk, so again, he put his hands over her bony shoulders tightly and led her away from the square.

“Thank you,” Wilme whispered to them as the three walked away. “I’ve lost all hope, but here you are. I shouldn’t have been so desperate.”

“You’re safe now,” Cullen said. “We won’t let any harm come to you, this I swear.”

“And I,” Cassandra joined. “We’re sorry we couldn’t come faster,” she apologized, “it took some persuasion to make the Chancellor reconsider.”

“I am amazed at what you’ve managed to accomplish,” Wilme squeezed the polite words out of herself, “how did you do it?”

“The Chancellor is not as angry as he wishes to appear,” Cassandra said. “It turns out he can be reasoned with, albeit, it seems, only under dire circumstances.”

“Perhaps earlier he believed in your guilt wholeheartedly,” Cullen went on, “but as time progressed and the word of your deeds spread, he started to have his doubts. He may have continued to say he wished for your execution, but truly, he had already abandoned the idea in his heart.”

“Perhaps he wanted certainty,” Cassandra nodded. “Certainty which could only be achieved by the death of an innocent. Sweet Maker, but I don’t care about his motivations. The most important thing is that he agreed to write this letter and you’re now safe.”

Safe, she thought.

“Thank you again,” Wilme said, “without you I’d be dead.”

“Thank the Maker. It was He who sent you to us and He who allowed it to happen,” Cassandra said solemnly.

“You have now escaped death twice,” Cullen agreed. “It says a lot.”


End file.
